Lines of Defense
by hellomynameisv
Summary: One-shot. How Reid has defended himself (emotionally) throughout his life. Bad summary, I know, but at least try to read it.


It all started when he was 10. His dad had left, and no matter how much he hoped for him to come back, he knew, in the back of his mind, that he wouldn't. Ever.

So that left him with the responsibility of taking care of his mother...and everything else parents were supposed to do. It wasn't fair. He hated it, every single minute. Not that he hated his mom. He loved her, so very much, but sometimes he wanted to escape from it all.

He wasn't even conscious of it at first, the escapes he made. He just knew that he didn't always want to go home so soon, asking his teachers for extra work, asking them if they needed any help, all to avoid going home to the crushing reality of his life.

Well, part of his life.

Eventually, he came to the realisation that it worked the other way around too. He could escape from the horrors at school, the bullies, by going home.

It was like he lived two separate lives. One at school, and one at home. Nobody at school knew about his schizophrenic mother, and she didn't know about his torments at school.

It was better that way.

When he was at school, he could forget home and focus on his studies. Sometimes he was so wrapped up in his studies, he would even forget an episode she had had the night before, when she had given him some cuts and bruises because she had thought he was a spy from the government, ignoring his desperate pleas. _Please, Mom, I'm your son, Spencer! Don't you remember me? Don't you care?_

Despite home being a mess, he still found comfort there from everything at school. The cuts and bruises he got from bullies usually went unnoticed by his mom, so he treated the wounds and moved on, forgetting about them altogether when trying, but failing, to get her out of bed.

But sometimes he missed the loving touch and care she used to give him.

\--

When he joined the BAU, he quickly realized that that strategy wouldn't work with this job. He couldn't keep his home life separate from their cases.

It made him feel vulnerable.

He knew the cases weren't meant to be taken personally, but he couldn't help it. Every time a victim or unsub reminded him too much of himself, he wanted to break down.

But he couldn't do that, not in front of the team, at least. It would make him seem weak and make them view him as a baby, even more so than they already did. It would make him seem incapable of doing thr job. So, whenever it seemed too much, he would hold it in, bring all the horrors home, and let it out.

_That could've been me, that could've been me_, he repeated in his head. But it hadn't. He tried to believe that, he really did.

But the fact that many serial killers had had similar childhoods to his hadn't passed his mind.

He always wondered, _What makes me different? Why did I turn out this way?_

There was never an answer.

\--

He soon learned that taking comfort in facts and statistics was a perfect way to distract him from the horrors that came with the job.

Numbers and facts weren't messy. They were concrete. It was always this way or that, right or wrong. Simple.

Emotions, on the other hand, was something he didn't know how to deal with. They could change in a matter of seconds and were unpredictable. Sometimes, he didn't even know what he was feeling, or if he was feeling anything at all (which greatly scared him because he didn't want to be a psychopath).

Facts were just better.

He knew that Hotch and Gideon had noticed his mental shield and had shared some private conversations and concerned looks regarding him. They had even tried to coax him out of the habit, trying to help him find another outlet for these emotions. They told him it wasn't healthy for him to be doing that.

He knew it wasn't healthy. He just didn't know what else to do.

\--

He thought this line of defense would be unbreakabke. After all, nobody could take statistics away from him; they would always be stuck in his mind. Even the job wouldn't be able to take that away from him.

For once, he was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

Hankel had left cracks in his shield, cracks that he didn't know how to mend. Statistics didn't provide him with the same comfort they used to. Any little thing could trigger a flashback to his abduction. He didn't know how he could survive this.

The cracks hadn't gone unnoticed by Hotch. Every time he, or the team, had approached him, asking if he was okay, he would wave them away, replying with something along the lines of _I'm fine._

They didn't need to worry about him. He was already enough of a burden. He could take care of himself. He always had.

_I'm fine. I'm fine. You're fine_, he repeated like a mantra. _You're fine. _Maybe, if he said it enough times, it would be true.

\--

Hankel had taken away his former defense, but he quickly, very quickly, too quickly, realized that Hankel had also given him another defense.

Dilaudid.

He knew it wasn't healthy, but he was desperate. Desperate for an escape from the darkness his world had become.

The drugs gave him just that: a welcome escape. That blisful unawareness that came with being high was something he began to need every day.

He didn't realize the trap he had fallen into until it was too late.

\--

_Just do it. Come on. Just open the door. It can't be that hard._

The last month had been hell. Through all the withdrawals, cravings, and horrifying cases he had gone through, he had been close to giving up multiple times (more times than he'd like to admit).

In addition to that, he also had to consciously hide it from his team every waking minute, though he figured some had already seen through his lies and deception.

Now that he was clean, he had resolved to tell the team about everything. It was too tiring trying to hide it from them. After all, they were profilers. You couldn't keep anything secret from them.

So, that's how he found himself there, standing on one side of the door that led to the horrors they saw in their everyday lives. He put his hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and walked in.

It was time to come clean.

So he told them everything (well, almost everything), head hung in shame, not willing to meet anyone's eyes. The one thing he didn't talk about was how close he had been to quitting it all, to ending his life.

But, after finishing and finally looking up, he could tell that they knew, he could see it in their eyes. The anger he had thought would be there was replaced with genuine concern for him, and love. Lots of love.

And, looking around, he knew that this line of defense would truly be unbreakable.


End file.
